Vivere Suites and Rooms

I’m lost in a reverie of pillowy, pumpkin-stuffed pasta, when Mr Smith has A Thought. ‘What time,’ he innocently asks, looking up from his lasagna, ‘is your massage at the hotel?’ It’s in 20 minutes, I realise, downing fork – and it’s still some distance away. We meant to arrive hours ago, but succumbed to Lake Garda’s languor, loitering in gelateria and on lemon-tree-lined promenades in a succession of pretty lakeside towns. Appointment hastily rearranged, desserts postponed, onwards we go.

While the south of the lake sips spritzes in the sun, the north’s a more dynamic prospect: restful hills give way to full-scale mountains, some still capped with snow. Spandexed cyclists barrel along the road, while windsurfers zip across the water – sights to gladden the heart of Mr Smith, who revels in such sporting activity. (A security check en route revealed that his bag is packed with all manner of outdoor gear: hiking boots and hi-tech fabrics in place of deck shoes and rumpled linen.)

Vivere Suites is just north of Lake Garda, in slightly unexpected surrounds: it’s set amid rustic fields of vines, but approached via a small industrial estate. ‘I like cranes,’ says Mr Smith stoutly, as we pull up at the gate: a high, artfully rusted iron affair, set in a mass of fragrant jasmine. As it swings back at some invisible command, we’re not sure quite what to expect.

First impressions? If God subscribed to Monocle, heaven might look a bit like this. Behind a row of rustling olive trees is a low-lying, glass-walled villa, flanked by an elegant pavilion and backdropped by distant mountains. A walkway leads to the saltwater pool and pristine, pale wood decking, set out with low, cushioned day beds where whole summers could be dozed away.

The whole place feels decidedly grown-up – an impression confirmed by our suite, with its polished concrete floors, larch-wood beams and palette of muted greys. The modish little bathroom is stocked with Etro toiletries, while the sexy sliver of a shower room has a long window panel overlooking the private front yard. ‘We could have this at home,’ declares Mr Smith. ‘Must be special one-way glass.’ (Admiring the flowers the next morning, I realise that’s not strictly so.)

Floor-to-ceiling glass spans the length of the living space, sliding open to our own little garden; at the touch of a button, a vast blackout blind descends, banishing the outside world. Mr Smith stretches out on the low, expansive bed and pronounces it entirely satisfactory: leaving him cocooned in expensive Italian linen, I head for my appointed massage.

In the airy, subterranean treatment rooms, the therapist awaits; a tiny, bird-like woman, possessed of superhuman strength. Unlike Mr Smith – a reluctant masseur – she’s also full of gratifying sympathy. ‘Poverina!’ she cries tenderly, coaxing back a hunched shoulder blade; ‘Mamma mia!’ she exclaims sotto voce, probing a dreadful, deep-set tension. Emerging 90 minutes later, I practically float back up the stairs.

Staying here, it turns out, is an exercise in relaxation, and Mr Smith’s smuggled walking boots stay firmly in his suitcase. Instead, the days fall into a lazy rhythm, starting with breakfast by the pool – a pleasurably prolonged, help-yourself affair featuring Vivere’s own honey and jams. It’s soundtracked by the low-level chill-out tunes that play all day, relayed by speakers hidden in the hedges. By rights, this should be incredibly annoying, but we’re no longer quite ourselves: we’re calmer, better, barefoot versions, at one with music in the shrubs.

With six suites in all, Vivere has the feel of a private villa: service is low-key and unintrusive, and we rarely even glimpse our fellow guests. The point of this place, as owner Edy explains, is to reconnect with nature, in a building designed to merge with its surrounds and run on renewable energy. His family also produce their own olive oil and headily delicious merlot: beneath Vivere’s polished exterior lies the soul of an agriturismo. Breakfasts are home-cooked with ingredients from the on-site farm (served by the pool deck), wines are all heritage Vivere and you can have your fridge stocked with local goodies or a picnic packed for a mountain bike ride.

Mostly we’re content just to daydream by the pool, idly contemplating the mountains – though we do manage a few excursions to the lake, in search of gelato and lunch. (Our suite has a hideaway kitchenette, but cooking seems a step too far; in the evenings, if you don’t want to drive, you can stroll to Edy’s nearby pizza place.) Denied serious sporting endeavour, Mr Smith settles for slow-paced bike rides instead: there’s a fleet of handsome, fixed-gear steeds to borrow, with Brooks saddles and leather-wrapped locks.

Invariably, though, the best bit of all is coming back to Vivere; at dusk, when lanterns glimmer by the pool, it’s wonderfully romantic. On our first night here we watched the stars, wrapped in duvets on the sunloungers; neither Smith could identify much beyond the Big Dipper, but – after a bottle of Edy’s excellent red – it really didn’t seem to matter.

Walking back from dinner on the last night we spot more constellations – only this time they’re earthbound; clusters of fireflies, glowing by the roadside and flickering amid the rows of vines. We stalk them in the long grass, breathing in the cool night air: back to nature, just as Edy promised, and in the most magical of ways.